


A Better Taste

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BOXES, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Dinner, First Kiss, Inner Dialogue, Lip Balm, M/M, Spideypool - Freeform, Taco Bueno!, Unfair use of super-strength, chapstick, quesadillas, white - Freeform, yellow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7705504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool and Spider-Man, sitting in a Taco Bueno! parking lot, eating Mexican food, and bullshitting. The Boxes won't shut the eff up and Petey's LIPS . . . are begging to be tasted. Written for this Tumblr prompt (http://animalasaysrauer.tumblr.com/post/148559190831/otp-prompt) by Animalasaysrauer. For the full prompt, also see end notes (thankees, Juu!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TuppingLiberty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

“ . . . but seriously, DP . . . didja _have_ to shatter his _entire_ face? Or are you trying to keep up with some quota the Boxes gave you?”

 

“Ah.” Deadpool waved a large, gloved, hot sauce-speckled hand at Spider-Man, and took a chomp out of his quesadilla, reveling in the burn-y goodness. “His face just got in the way of my elbow six or eight times. Shit happens, you know?”

 

“Sure, it does, DP.”

 

{Arrr, matey, he be a crafty minx!}

 

[Yeah . . . maybe _too_ crafty. . . .]

 

 _Listen, White, if you so much as breathe a_ hint _of threat, even in the general direction of my Petey, I swear, I’ll drive a dagger into my corpus callosum faster than you can say_ temporary vegetative state, Deadpool thought grimly at the paranoid Box as he bit into his chicken and jalapeno quesadilla. He briefly smiled as he imagined how interesting and _caliente_ the Bathroom Olympics would be in the morning. This was his eighth such quesadilla and he wasn’t even _close_ to full. _And Yellow, Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day already happened, amigo. You missed it, this year, and I’m sorry. There’s always next year._

 

{Well, _White_ was supposed to remind me! But he was too busy making tinfoil hats and shockin’ the monkey to old episodes of _Yan Can Cook_!}

 

[More like _Yan Can_ Cock!—can’t tell me dude isn’t fuckin’ _PACKIN’_!]

 

{If he’s packin’ so much wang under that little apron, why’s he gotta _cook_ to impress the ladies? Why not just whip his fuckin’ dick out and let it do the ‘cooking’ for him?}

 

[Uh, it’s called having _facets_ , you Philistine. Imagine how much pussy he gets with a big cock _and_ mad culinary skillz. Amiright?]

 

Deadpool rolled his eyes. Not _this_ argument again. Time to distract the Boxes with something they could all agree on. Unfortunately, Petey was sitting on his sweet ass, so there was no staring at _that_ as a distraction. Not really. So that left. . . .

 

Well. . . .

 

Deadpool was still trying to come up with a suitable distraction from the Boxes’ increasingly heated discussion about Yan-wang, when Petey belched and covered his mouth. His mask had been rolled up to expose the lower-half of his face, which pinked as he excused himself. Then he chuckled and patted his ripped abs. God, he had such a tight, toned little body. . . .

 

“A compliment for the cook,” Deadpool said lamely, and Petey chuckled again, quirking his fucking _gorgeous_ smile at Deadpool, those pretty lips curving and revealing perfect white teeth.

 

“Something like that. I’ve gotta say, though, that was some _superior_ burrito-slinging. I haven’t eaten all day and that filled me up really fast.”

 

{I know _I’d_ like to fill somethin’ up real fast. . . .}

 

[Agreed.]

 

{And by that, I mean Petey’s tight little asshole.}

 

[Yeah, mmhm, kinda figured that out for myself, Yellow.]

 

{I coulda meant his mouth, you know.}

 

[Eh. You’re more of an ass-man. We all know that.]

 

{ _Anyone_ would be an ass-man for Petey’s pert posterior! Though, now that you mention his _mouth_ . . . ah, a prettier pair of DSLs has never before been seen on this Earth! It’s official: All of Peter Parker’s orifices—orifi?—are sheer perfection!}

 

[I’d definitely put my dick in his ear-hole, that’s for sure . . . come so hard, he’d have permanent brain damage.]

 

_I’m embarrassed that I know either of you._

 

“What can I say, Baby Boy? _Taco Bueno!_ is the _crème-de-la-crème_ of Mom and Pop taco-joints! No matter the universe. At least in _this_ writer’s very limited and lazy little imagination.” Deadpool snorted. “Even though we’re in a _completely_ _different_ ‘verse than that last Petey and Wade fic she cranked out a couple days ago, she used the same damn taco-joint. Hell, I’m not even sure _Taco Beuno!_ is a real place. I _think_ it’s a stolen _King of the Hill_ reference.” Deadpool glared meaningfully at the fourth wall for so long, Petey started to stare with him, clearly seeing nothing but the mostly-empty parking lot, in which they sat on the hood of someone’s ancient Chrysler LeBaron. “I fucking _hate_ that cartoon. Next time, reference _Steven Universe,_ or _Bob’s Burgers_ , or I’ll give new meaning to the phrase _break the fourth wall_.”

 

“Oh, I love _Bob’s Burgers_!” Petey enthused adorably, still glancing between Deadpool and the parking lot. Then he shrugged and smiled his usual fond, accepting smile. The one he wore now whenever Deadpool broke that fourth wall or had extensive, out-loud convos with his Boxes. “Never seen _Steven Universe_ , though.”

 

“Never seen—Jeezus _pleezus_ , Petey-boy!” Deadpool shook his head, turning his attention back to his current quesadilla. It burned hotter than a case of Slovakian dick-rot. “You’re givin’ me agita! You _do_ realize the only reason _you’ve_ never seen _Steven Universe_ is because the writer of this swell little fuck-fest has never seen it, right?”

 

“What?”

 

“ _Le sigh_. Nothing, never mind.”

 

{We gotta edu-mah-cate this here boy, quick-like!}

 

[And not just about pop-culture. Though . . . yeah.]

 

{To the Bat-Cave!}

 

_You know, I unalived a lot of shit-swizzling dick-tips for that penthouse apartment. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t equate it with a hole in the ground covered in flying rodent-guano._

 

{Fine . . . to the Fortress of Solitude, then!}

 

_Really, Yellow?_

 

{Okay, Mr. Specificity . . . to that place where we watch the Netflixes and Google the porns!}

 

[To be fair, we also do those things at the Avengers’ Tower when they’re not there—and sometimes when they are—at the X-Mansion, Petey’s place, the main branch of the New York Public Library, that _Starbucks_ in SoHo, that _other_ _Starbucks_ that’s also in SoHo—]

 

Deadpool sighed and tried his best to tune-out the Boxes. They’d been getting salty and argumentative, of late. Over stupider shit than usual. It was enough to drive a crazy man sane.

 

“. . . if you came over and watched it with me?” Petey was saying quietly, almost hesitantly, licking his lovely lips. Deadpool stared for a few moments, willing away a raging hell-beast of a sudden hard-on that for once, luckily, the Boxes didn’t notice and thus didn’t encourage.

 

Then he was shaking his head again. “Sorry. Had a mental health moment. What was that?”

 

Petey’s shy smile turned wry. “I said, maybe I’d watch _Steven Universe_ if you came over and watched it with me.”

 

Surprised, Deadpool found himself grinning and nodding eagerly, as if he’d never Netflixed and chilled (platonically, more’s the pity) at Petey’s tiny little place before. “Yeah, sure! Hey, that sounds great!”

 

“Good.” Petey hummed and suddenly pulled a tube of lip balm from _nowhere_ Deadpool could see—Petey’s suit really left _little_ to the imagination . . . the boy's body was compact, spare, but _smokin_ '—like David-fucking-Copperfield, then uncapped it and began carefully applying it to flawless, lushly pink lips.

 

 _I want those around my cock. Like,_ forever _,_ Deadpool thought wistfully, and the Boxes took a moment to stop fussing with each other—over whether or not salt was a true spice or just a tasty-ass chemical . . . Yellow said _yea_ and White said _nay_ —to heartily agree, with twin yearning sighs.

 

Deadpool opened his mouth to say—oh, God only _knew_ what, but most days, it was objectively fascinating to find out, even for him—something sexual harass-y, but hilarious, something Petey’d long since stopped taking offense at, if ever he had. Instead, he found himself staring at the lip balm, lucky lip balm, as it glided across Petey’s lips.

 

Licking his own dry—like, verging on alarmingly, _grossly_ dry—lips, he croaked out: “Heyya, that’s what I’m talkin’ 'bout! Lip-lube! Can I try it? I wanna have a taste!”

 

Petey glanced at him as he started to cap the lip balm, his surprise palpable even behind the half-raised mask, his lips parting slightly. _Forever_ , Deadpool thought as his Boxes simultaneously groaned and metaphorically adjusted their figurative dicks in their analogical trousers.

 

Then Petey was holding out the lip balm to Deadpool, smiling again. “Sure, knock yourself out, DP. It’s coconut cream—” he said in that perky, Petey Parker-way, but before he could finish—and Deadpool didn’t even actually _hear_ what Petey had said, because the Boxes were shrilling at him to _GO FOR IT, YOU PLUG-UGLY DOUCHE-NOZZLE_!—Deadpool darted in and pressed his own dry, chapped lips to Petey’s soft, luscious ones for a long, sweaty-balled, pit-stained moment. And when Petey made a surprised _mphrgle!_ sound, Deadpool took advantage of the sitch to open his mouth and flick his tongue over those sweet lips.

 

Petey tasted like _pina coladas_ . . . and getting caught in the rain. . . .

 

For the first time since the Weapon X Program, Deadpool’s— _Wade’s_ —Boxes were struck silent. Like, utterly _gobsmacked_ , and not just because the writer of the increasingly befuddling fic Deadpool had found himself in had run out of snappy in-jokes and pop-culture references.

 

Even Yan’s big wang couldn't distract from or eclipse . . . _this_.

 

Because for the first time since _before_ the Weapon X Program, Wade Winston Wilson felt less like a monster and more like . . . a _man_. . . .

 

{Abort! Abort!} Yellow shrieked, and at the same time White took up a similar refrain.

 

[No, you crazy cock-gobbler, _abort_! Back away from the boy and DO NOT collect $200!]

 

“Uh. Ahem.” Wade— _Deadpool_ —cleared his throat as he pulled away from a still-shocked Petey, whose amazing lips were still slightly puckered and parted. “Uhhh . . . um . . . so. Yeah. SORRY . . . and ‘BYE-ZEES!” Face burning like his asshole would be tomorrow morning while he passed those quesadillas, Deadpool blushed and took off, dinner left behind, speed-walking away, and face-palming repeatedly while cursing under his breath.

 

(Though the Boxes had filthier mouths than Deadpool'd ever had, and were putting them to good use as he crossed the parking lot, avoiding the yellow splashes of streetlamp-light and cleaving to the shadows.

 

{—can’t believe you fucking  _did_ that—}

 

[—smack the _bitch_ outta you—]

 

 _What the_ actual fuck _? You asshats_ told me to kiss him _!_ )

 

He’d made it to the alley across the street and between _Pardue Realty_ and _Mrs. Lao’s Fancy Dry-Cleaners_ , and was making for the fire escape attached to the real estate office— _why_ did every alleyway in Creation have to smell like a combination of piss, garbage, burnt tires, and rat-buttholes?—when he was suddenly grabbed around the waist, bodily _turned_ , and slammed back-first against the wall. _Hard_.

 

There was the _click-whish!_ of Petey’s web-shooters, and then Deadpool couldn’t fucking _move_ , stuck as his wrists, ankles, and pelvis were to Mrs. Lao’s grungy brick wall.

 

He blinked at Petey—at _Spider-Man_ , since the mask was pulled all the way down—and met that expressionless white gaze. Deadpool’s own mask was still half-up, and he grinned his scarifying, scarred grin helplessly, hoping Spidey’d keep the damage strictly to the face and body, and leave his man-berries out of it. They were innocent, and had done nothing wrong. Lately.

 

As for the butterflies that’d been in his gut from the moment Petey’s lips slid against his own . . . well, Deadpool supposed that after Spidey was done kicking his ass, he could limp his way off to a _Duane Reade_ and get some Raid to guzzle . . . poison those optimistic little fuckers into their next lives.

 

Spidey leaned in close . . . so close, Deadpool started genuinely hankering for a _pina colada_ like only Weasel could make—which was to say, _really_ shitty, and with not enough rum—those white eye-patches boring into his own. Deadpool couldn’t even imagine the big, hazel eyes with their thick fan of lashes behind that intimidating mask. The Boxes were metaphorically pissing their analogical pants and muttering something about some t.v. show called _Ouch, My Balls!_ which Deadpool assumed must be on the  _Fox_ network's fall line-up.

 

It was less than helpful information at that moment, so he focused on Spidey’s body-heat, which he could _feel_ , with the arachnoid avenger so damn close. That closeness and heat was making Deadpool hard _fast_ , which Spidey would eventually notice. And when he did, Deadpool supposed he’d wind up regrowing his own dick.

 

Yet again.

 

“If you had asked, Wade,” Spidey said in a low, _hungry_ voice Deadpool had _never_ heard from him before, his hands coming up to bracket Deadpool’s head on the wall. His feet did the same to Deadpool’s knees. “I could've given you a _much better_ taste than _that_.”

 

Then Spidey was peeling up his mask enough to reveal a predatory, _possessive_ smile, and leaning in until Deadpool’s world was _pina coladas_ and soft-slick-sweet. . . .

 

By the time Spidey—no, _Petey_. Anyone kissing Wade Winston Wilson like _that_ should've been on a mutual first name-basis—pulled back to examine his handiwork, licking his lips and grinning, Wade was convinced he was indeed, in some hack-writer's fictionalized account of his life.

 

“Well?” Petey breathed, voice sultry and cracking just slightly. Wade huffed and giggled, both nervous and ecstatic. “How’s it taste, Wade?”

 

“Oh, _Baby Boy_ , I got just _one_ thing to say about that kiss.” Wade sighed happily as Petey cocked his head curiously. “Marsha Brady, was that your _tongue_ in my mouth?”

 

Petey leaned in to nuzzle Wade’s jaw, nodding. “Mm _hmm_. My tongue’s gonna go a lot of _other_ places tonight, as well.”

 

“I th-thought as much.” Wade groaned, testing the strength of the webbing binding him to the brick wall. He wanted more than anything to put his hands on Petey’s grab-able _ass_ and squeeze for all they were _both_ worth . . . but that webbing was super-strong.

 

Petey had Wade’s ear lobe caught between playful, but purposeful teeth, interspersing nibbles with flickers of wet, agile tongue, until Wade moaned, loud and long, trying to push his hips forward into Petey’s. But again . . . super-strong webbing was _super_ -strong.

 

“Keep _that_ up, Peter Parker, and my boom-stick’ll explode. Possibly not in the good way,” he whined warningly. A throaty chuckle sounded in his ear and Petey’s body pressed against Wade’s, hard in _all_ the right places. Wade and his Boxes all made choked, garbled sounds that tried to be Petey’s name again.

 

“If I let you go,” Petey murmured teasingly, but there was a tight set to his mouth as he leaned back to look at Wade, “you promise not to run away from me again?”

 

“Oh, Baby Boy . . . I’m gonna hang around you like a _stench_ , from now on. I’ll be on you—and _in_ you—like something penicillin can’t shift.” Wade smirked and licked his own lips, certain it wasn’t _nearly_ as sexy as when Petey did it. But Petey’s lips parted and he exhaled heavily—like he was turned-on _mightily_ and trying to pace himself.

 

{Huh.}

 

[Huh?]

 

_Well._

 

Petey leaned in to lick a quick stripe across Wade’s jaw as he ripped the webbing off the other man’s wrists and pinned Wade’s hands to the wall with his own, squeezing rhythmically, like a heartbeat. “Sounds like a plan. Except you got one detail _slightly_ wrong, baby.”

 

“Oh?” Petey unstuck from the wall and ripped the webbing at Wade’s pelvis and ankles. The merc dropped to the ground, rubbing his wrists—not from the webbing, but from Petey’s _grip_ . . . holy mother of macaroni and _cheese_ , but his baby was _hella_ strong!—and looking Petey over eagerly. _I'ma be_ all _up in that._ “And what piddling detail was that, my little love-arachnid?”

 

Petey’s grin was downright _sharkish_ before he reapplied his lip balm—really, though, where was he _keeping_ it? A pocket-dimension?—and then disappeared it and pulled the mask back down. His _and_ Wade's. “The detail where, when we get back to my place, I web you to the wall and fuck your slut-ass good and hard, ‘til your healing ability throws up its hands and calls it a fucking night.”

 

{SPROING!}

 

[I’m, uh, actually a little frightened, guys. . . .]

 

 _Dagger. Corpus callosum. Don’t ruin this for me, you fucks,_ Wade hissed silently to his Boxes as his knees tried to do their best impersonation of cooked spaghetti and his dick tried to do its best impersonation of a sequoia.

 

When Wade could only gape at Petey in utter bemusement and wonder, the other man leaned in again, his palpable regard as grim as the Reaper.

 

"Seriously, Wade," he gritted out in a solemn, strained tone, as if self-control was suddenly a hard-fought, hard-won battle. "I am going. To fucking. _Wreck_ _you_."

 

“ _Fuck_ , Petey,” Wade gulped out desperately, leaning against the wall for a moment, turned-on and overwhelmed. He could sense that shark-smile on Petey’s pretty face as the masked hero scooped him up like he weighed about half of nothing. Wade wrapped his big arms around his small, but sexy spider's neck.

 

“ _Exactly_ what I had in mind, Wade. Now, hold on tight . . . the ride’s gonna be _rough_ , and trust me.” Petey began to walk _up the wall_ , casual as khakis. A _fuck you_ to gravity that turned Wade on even more. “I’m not gonna make it any easier on you.”

 

“Just gonna ride a bitch’s back like Yoda on Luke?” Wade asked hopefully, smiling, as momentary melancholy swept right through him . . . and was then gone.

 

“ _Empire_ , right? And . . . yes,” Petey said absently as he hopped over the rim of the rooftop and stalked confidently toward the eastern edge. Wade sighed and swung his legs giddily, giggling and holding on _extra_ -tight to his man as they marched off into the moonlight.

 

“It’s like I made you in a computer, Baby Boy. . . .”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  A and B are best friends. A is applying a new flavor of chapstick.  
> “Can I try it? I wanna have a taste,” B asks curiously.  
> “Sure, it’s coconut cream-” A starts to reply, but before they can finish, B kisses A on the lips.  
> “Uhhh… Uhhh… Um…. So. Yeah. SORRY, BYE.” B blushes and takes off, speed walking away and facepalming repeatedly while cursing under their breath.  
> A stands there, in shock, blushing, but also grinning and feeling butterflies swirling around in their stomach. A chases after B, tackling them from behind, and says “if you had asked I could have given you a better taste than that!”
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)? All your friends are, y'know. . . .


End file.
